#bedofsnowberries

[bloodoftheancients]

✄ ((Oooooh boy yes!))

[bloodoftheancients]

Time's Scar [ Mirthys|Faenil ]

Lost. Again. Retracing hurried steps was proving to be more of a challenge than speaking Cyrodilic for the discombobulated Mirthys, all but completely blinded by the vicious howl of winter that had whipped up a frenzied onslaught of the cruelest icy winds. She had seen so little of the world on the surface outside of the hallowed Chantry's walls, and thus, navigating the vast expanses of the plains of white that encompassed Skyrim's northernmost wilderness was rapidly proving to be a futile effort.  Burrowing the lower half of her face among the thick swathes of cloth around her neck, Mirthys bowed her head and ploughed stubbornly through yet another snowdrift, seething as the gelid caress of the storm enrobed her diminutive form and chilled her to the very bone. She was keenly aware that her mixed heritage did not lend itself kindly to such vicious extremes in clime, but felt there was little other option than to take the risk and brave the brunt of the elements in her search for the once sacrosanct sanctuary she had so hastily abandoned. Diving into a large crevice, nestled shyly among the imposing monolith of the sheer cliff face she had been using for guidance, the lost Snow Elf slumped to the floor, hungry, tired and defeated. She had not eaten for days, remaining keenly aware of the increasing urgency of locating a source of nourishment. Perhaps whence the storm had departed to territories new, there would present a better opportunity to forage and hunt. For now, however, the best she could do was keep warm. Striking a small fire from an improvised kindling of dried moss and twigs, she huddled close to the smoky flame; the lone light among the shadows an oddly hopeful symbol, despite the bleakness of the land outside.

[afterthefallofgrace]

bedofsnowberries started following you

Silivriel took a deep breath, sighting down the line of her arrow as she crouched amongst the trees and bushes. A deer grazed unknowingly nearby, and the Snow Elf womer prayed her grumbling stomach wouldn't give away her position. She and Silaithas had not eaten in three days; she had to be successful this time.

She let out the air slowly, until her hand steadied and the arrow pointed seamlessly at the deer's ribcage. And with barely a blink of an eye, the arrow went flying. The deer went down and Silivriel jumped up in joy, trotting out from behind her cover to go recover her kill. Silaithas would be so happy.

[whose-fools]

+bedofsnowberries

Iceila Looked at the other and smiled. 

"We come to a point in life where the world truly has changed everything and yet many things stay the same. I must ponder at what point the Snow elves gained their sharp features. Or am I just an odd case then?" She spoke in the ancient tongue of her people.

"My true name is lost to time itself. I am called Iceila de'Lone. The lone surviving snow elf of the first era. " She added with a bow.